The History Bystander

Friday, 4 January 2013

It may come as a surprise that television's most famous time traveller has a surprisingly distant relationship with the fortified nobles' homes which are scattered across our island. You might expect that Medieval England is an obvious destination for what started as a children's TV show with a partly educational remit - but it is not the case.

As a devoted fan of this magnificent programme, and as a lover of history too, I have decided to take you on a spin in the TARDIS to poke around the collection of castles that have graced the show through the years. I will name the episodes and show some clips in which they appear, so you can keep an eye out for repeats in 2013 - the show's 50th Anniversary year.

The studio-bound nature of the early seasons
meant that often painted backdrops were used.
Here is a fairytale castle in a fantasy land.

Doctor Who began in 1963 but despite the Time Lord's ability to meet history's greatest rulers, not one single genuine castle was used for filming during the show's first seven years of production. When one finally made an appearance, it did not represent a trip to the past, but instead featured as a contemporary prison.

By the time location filming had become more affordable and therefore more frequent, it coincided with a shift in thinking about what the programme should contain, and historical stories were phased out in favour of visits to the future or thrillers set on contemporary Earth.

When the TARDIS finally made a trip to a fictional medieval castle, it was actually filmed at a Victorian mansion! The second real castle to appear in the show was used to represent a suspiciously retro alien world, and it was only the third occasion that a structure from the Middle Ages was used for filming a historical location. The final castle used in the show was seen during a visit to the present day. In the entire original 26-year run of Doctor Who, only four castles were featured in the series, and on only one occasion was it for the purposes of dropping in on a famous king or queen.

After the series returned to our screens in 2005, a plethora of historic landmarks was visited, but once again they were used creatively to portray structures such as prisons, monasteries, Downing Street and even Venice. Here's my guide to the real castles of the Middle Ages that have featured in the fictional worlds of Doctor Who.

Dover Castle - "The Mind of Evil"

The first castle ever used on the show was during production of the Season Eight adventure The Mind of Evil, when the crew went on location to Kent at the end of October 1970. Dover Castle was chosen to portray Stangmoor Prison and numerous sequences were filmed there. The castles Constable's Gateway (completed in 1227) was used for shots of vehicles approaching, including the Doctor's arrival at the opening of episode one.

The earliest part of the Castle used was the King's Gate built in the 1180s and this can be seen during an assault by the paramilitary force UNIT. Also during this attack on the "prison", the castle's distinctive Fitzwilliam Gateway was used. The late-Victorian stables were shown as the attack was mustered and the Keep Yard was the setting for bits including an impressive stunt fall down a set of steps.

Peckforton Castle - "The Time Warrior"

The first time the Doctor travels back in time to visit a castle is in the show's ninth season. But although the Doctor arrives in the Middle Ages, the structure used for filming is in fact a country house whose construction was started in 1844. During three days' shooting in mid-May 1973, Peckforton Castle became the fictional home of the evil medieval bandit Irongron.

Peckforton was commissioned by the wealthy estate manager John Tollemache and designed by Anthony Salvin in the Gothic style. Its authentic-looking exterior and modern facilities made for an ideal building to film the scenes which were supposed to take place in the 13th century. It doesn't belong on this list, but is included because it's the first of only two fictional visits to such a setting.

Episode two of The Time Warrior features Peckforton Castle in its opening and it can be seen in the first minute of this video clip along with the first ever appearance of a Sontaran - a monster which continues to be popular today. There is more good footage of the location in this clip here.

Leeds Castle - "The Androids of Tara"

It is quite remarkable that a gap of a further seven years then elapses before a castle is required again in Doctor Who, although there was one quirk to mention. For the story Terror of the Zygons a stock photo of Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye was used to represent Forgill Castle, but no location work was done there.

When the TARDIS lands on an alien planet called Tara, its similarity to medieval England allows for a retelling of The Prisoner of Zenda but, as this is Doctor Who, it is done so using androids.

For this ersatz environment, Leeds Castle in Kent was selected and the production team filmed there between 24th and 28th July 1978 in the story which was called The Androids of Tara. The first building on the site was started in 1119 but the following centuries saw demolition and rebuilding, and much modification by Henry VIII. The building was transformed again in 1823 when it took on its present form in the Tudor style.

The Doctor Who team would not call upon another castle for five years - but there was a cameo by Powis Castle at the end of Warriors Gate. Still images were used as backdrops with the characters added using blue-screen. The slides were seen only in greyscale to emphasise the mysterious "mirror world" in which the characters arrived.

Bodiam Castle - "The King's Demons"

A medieval castle was actually used to portray a medieval castle on only one occasion, and it came in the Peter Davison story The King's Demons. Purely historical adventures were long since extinct by this stage and the plot deals with the Master's attempt to change history at the court of King John with the help of an android.

Ironically, the story is set in 1215 but the location chosen for this chivalric tale was Bodiam Castle in East Sussex, built in 1385 by Sir Edward Dalyngrigge.

Some beautiful establishing shots of the Castle from episode one can be seen here along with the jousting which then takes place in the grounds - and the TARDIS landing interrupting it. You can click here to see the TARDIS being carted inside the castle.

Arundel Castle - "Silver Nemesis"

The final castle to feature in the new series appeared for the location-only story Silver Nemesis, and was recorded in June 1988. The adventure takes place in Windsor Castle but the production team could not secure permission to record in the real location and so Arundel Castle was selected as a suitable substitute.

The crowd of tourists featured a number of celebrity extras to mark the 25th anniversary of the programme. Included in these people was Nicholas Courtney in his first appearance in the show for five years, although not specifically playing the Brigadier.

The New Series - Welsh Castles from 2005 Onwards

When Doctor Who was brought in from the cold and relaunched in 2005, the new show was based in Cardiff rather than London. Dramatic changes to production techniques in the preceding decades had made location work ubiquitous for most television serials and so more real buildings were scouted for shooting.

Doctor Who in its reborn form not only had a more generous budget but greater ambitions and more time to prepare, and so location work in some of Wales's finest historic buildings became commonplace.

And yet, as with the previous incarnation of the show, the Doctor still rarely shows us any iconic moments from British history, and therefore the nation's great stone fortifications have been used instead to depict a variety of weird and wonderful places.

Penllyn Castle - "Tooth and Claw"

Although Hensol Castle was the first gothic-looking building to be used in the new series, it is actually a Georgian mansion. The first genuinely old structure to be utilized does not have much surviving from the Middle Ages but features quite prominently in the opening of Tooth and Claw. The Doctor Who team came to Penllyn in Glamorgan in September 2005 to film the kung-fu style courtyard battle at Sir Robert's House. Started in 1135, this privately-owned house only has a couple of walls dating from the earliest phase of building, with most being rebuilt in recent centuries.

Fonmon Castle - "The Next Doctor"

Whilst the aforementioned Hensol had been used for a couple of shots in The Next Doctor, it was the elegant interior of the 13th century Fonmon Castle that appeared most on screen. Sadly, however, the building's impressive exterior was not used.

During shooting in April 2008, several rooms and the stairs and landing were used as the Cybermen chased the Doctor through Reverend Fairchild's house. The impressive rooms can be seen in this clip from the episode.

Castell Coch - "Journeys End" and "Vampires of Venice"

When an ominous castle in Germany had to be depicted, the predominantly Victorian folly known was Castell Coch was used as the foreign UNIT base in the season finale Journey's End. An establishing shot of the distinctive south-west corner was followed by scenes set in the banquet hall when Martha meets a German woman.

Much of this house was built in the 1870s but it is founded on the remains of a 13th century castle. The site is at least authentic, even if the current architecture is not. The location work was completed in March 2008, but the production team returned in January 2010 when its distinctive courtyard was used as the Calvierri residence in the Vampires of Venice.

Caerphilly Castle - "The Rebel Flesh" and others

In April 2009, Doctor Who came to Caerphilly for the first time, but the show would return on many occasions during the following years. This great structure was never used to represent a historical building, and rarely was it even used to represent Britain, but it was the first full appearance of a proper medieval castle's exterior in the new series.

The interior first appeared as Her Majesty's Prison Broadfell during the Master's resurrection in David Tennant's finale The End of Time. Despite the castle Gatehouse's spacious interior, a new, vaulted ceiling was added in post production to provide more spectacle.

The next time the production team arrived, the castle was to play the somewhat unlikely role of Venice. On 9th February 2010, the castle moat was used during a night shoot in order to record a scene in which Doctor and Rory arrive at the Calvierri palace for The Vampires of Venice. The Great Hall was featured when a doorway to the palace was needed, and the castle's tunnels were used for when characters made their way in and out.

Ten months later, Doctor Who was back in the very same tunnels for The Rebel Flesh to shoot scenes with Rory, and the crew returned again in April 2012 to shoot scenes for The Power of Three.

Cardiff Castle - "The Snowmen" and "The Rebel Flesh"

Cardiff Castle was visited twice by the Doctor Who team. At the end of November 2010 and again in the new year, the corridors were used for the futuristic Monastery in The Rebel Flesh.

In mid-September 2012, the interiors were used for recording the Christmas special called The Snowmen.

Skenfrith Castle - "Amy's Choice"

The only present-day castle ruin ever to appear in Doctor Who as a present-day castle ruin, this location was used at the end of February 2010 in the story Amy's Choice.

The first parts of the defences were built shortly after 1066 and the castle was still in use in the 15th century. By 1538 the castle was abandoned and ruinous and is now an open site in the midst of the town.

Much is seen of the ruin as the episode centres around Amy Pond's home of Leadworth. She and and her time-travelling friends wander about the village, chat in the castle grounds, and ultimately meet a group of alien-possessed pensioners on the green.

Chepstow Castle - "The Rebel Flesh"

In December 2010, yet another historic location was used for the two-parter The Almost People and The Rebel Flesh.

Chepstow Castle in Monmouthshire featured as the Monastery for this retro-futuristic outpost and is the oldest surviving post-Roman stone fortification in Britain. It was in regular use until 1685 whereafter it was partly dismantled and fell into disrepair.

And so ends our tour of England and Wales. Almost all these sites are accessible to the public and present a great opportunity to engage children with the past. Next time you're planning a holiday - especially anywhere near South Wales - why not look in on a few of these sites which are now part of our televisual history as well as our military one.

Sunday, 18 December 2011

A unexplained death in Victorian England is an instantly captivating notion. From the fiction of Sherlock Holmes to fact of Mr Whicher, it's proven to be a repeatedly popular topic. Little wonder I became so easily drawn into a world of 19th century intrigue, when I chanced upon a remark in the Victorian Diary of my relative Farmer John.

You can read about the death of the ancestor who connects me to the diarist, but it's not her demise I'm concerned with here. This tangent arose from a recent entry I posted from his journal, as follows:

"Dec 15th 1878. Sunday. Snow this morning. Snowing all day. Mr Edwards of Standish preached for us today. He told us of a poison case at Standish. A Mrs Charnley of Preston left two children."

I have often been interested in the precise nature of these sermons and it strikes me that a poison case would make for a curious topic in church. I wondered what possible moral lesson it might teach. With the British Newspaper Archive having recently gone online, a little searching took me straight to the relevant page of The Preston Chronicle and Lancashire Advertiser, dated December 7, 1878.

SUPPOSED SUICIDE OF A LATE PRESTON SOLICITOR'S WIDOW

An inquest was held, on Wednesday, at the residence of Mr Bell, a Solicitor, Highfield House, Standish, on the body of Mrs. F. A. Charnley, widow of the late Mr. W. M. Charnley, solicitor, Preston.

Herbert Booth Bell was acting as Mrs Charnley's solicitor at the time, and he owned the house in which she died. He tells the inquest that the deceased was 34 years of age and that he had known her and her late husband for a long time. He explains the events leading up to that night...

"The deceased has had great domestic troubles during the last 18
months. In November 1877, she obtained a decree nisi for a divorce from
her husband. She had alimony after the rate of £500 a year. The husband
died about April last. Previously to that her allowance had ceased to be
paid. After her husband's death, so far as I know, she had no source of
income, but she had furniture and some jewelery. She broke up her house
at Reading between two and three months ago. I went over to Reading to
arrange about the sale for her, received the proceeds, paid the debts,
and have now a balance in hand. She remained at Reading with some
friends, for a short time after the sale, but was obliged to leave on
account of sickness in the house. I was in correspondence with her
husband's relations about arrangements for for her. At this time three
of her children were under the care of her husband's father, but the
other child she had with her. I invited her to come to my house to see
about some settlement of her affairs. She explained whilst at my house
that she had to go to Southport. At the time she went to Southport, a trial was pending at the Liverpool Assizes at which it was thought she might be called upon, as her name might be mentioned. She was very much put out of the way about the trial when she saw the report in the newspapers."

Having explained that the deceased first came to stay with him five or six weeks ago, he describes exactly what happened on the night in question:

"I did not see her on Monday until eight o'clock in the evening. At that time she was, as far as I knew, in her usual health. I remained in the house the whole of the evening. Deceased had tea with me about nine o'clock. She remained in the dining-room till between ten and eleven o'clock. She was occupied in reading the Saturday Review. I was also present the whole time and was reading. We had not much conversation together. I complained that I thought I had caught cold, and that my bed had not been well aired, and she asked me if I would like a hot water tin putting in the bed. I replied: No. She said: Well, I will have one in my bed; and she went out of the room, and I heard her call out to the housekeeper about it. She then went upstairs and returned shortly afterwards to the dining-room."

Having established the setting, we then learn of the eerie comments the deceased would make, shortly before her bizarre death...

"She stopped as if listening and said: Is that not some one outside the house? She had made the same remark once or twice before, during the evening. I said: I don't hear anyone. She then walked out of the room into the hall. The gas was lighted there, and the dining-room door was open. I heard her move the venetian blind in the adjoining room, and shortly afterwards came back. She went in the direction of the room where she had previously been sitting and then came towards me, and walked round my chair in the direction of the couch. I noticed a change in her appearance, and asked her what was the matter, but she made no reply. The room was very warm, and I thought she was fainting. I assisted her to the couch, and put her in a sitting position, and she immediately fell back against the head of the couch. I raised her head so that she could breathe freely, loosened her dress, and wheeled the couch between the two doors which I opened. I bathed her temples with water, and then went upstairs and roused the housekeeper. I returned to the dining room, and found her as I left her. I continued to rub her hands and bathe her temples until the housekeeper came. I went to the cellar and got brandy for her, and gave her a spoonful but she did not swallow it. She was unconscious the whole time, and breathed heavily at first. When Dr Rowland came he pronounced her to be dead."

A sudden and inexplicable death, it seems. Although Mr Bell provides some insight into her circumstances and his comments are apparently designed to give some indication that she perhaps had a fragile state of mind. He notes:

"She determined to send her child Mabel to her grandfather, and this seemed to distress her. Since she returned from Southport, I have heard her say it would not be long before she was "at rest." I advised her not to send all her things back to her father-in-law until she had made some arrangements. She said she was willing to give up everything if any allowance was made to her."

Me Bell appears keen to illustrate that she was distressed, and claims she made that portentous comment about soon being "at rest".

The housekeeper Martha Evans gave evidence next, and she provides some rather contrary comments:

"I have not had any conversation with her about domestic troubles. She was generally in good spirits."

Not only did the housekeeper's remarks seem at odds with regard to her general disposition, but Martha Evans was explicit about Mrs Charnley's behaviour on the night of her death:

"She had dinner at one o'clock, alone. After coming back from the station went out for a walk, and was away about three-quarters of an hour. On her return she said she had been as far as the house where Mr Bell used to live. She was naturally a very quick walker, and appeared in good spirits when she returned."

So, whilst Mr Bell paints a picture of a paranoid woman, frantic about her family matters, and even planning her own demise - the housekeeper instead tells of a normal evening and a woman who seemed quite content. The housekeeper continues:

"At nine o'clock she had tea with Mr. Bell. I saw her several times during the evening; she was generally reading. She never complained of anything to me. Ten minutes [after I went to bed] Mr. Bell asked me to come down, as Mrs. Charnley was unwell, and I went down and found her lying on the couch in the dining room. I have not heard any high words between her and Mr. Bell."

Curious that she should specify there was no argument. Did she mean this was never the case? Or did she just mean that there had been no quarrel on that particular evening?

Mrs Charnley was also making plans as usual, as the housekeeper added that she was intending to leave on Friday next, and she said she was going to her father-in-law's.

Dr. T. Oliver of Preston examined the body and found all the organs healthy with the exception of the stomach which was slightly tinged with blood. He says:

"The stomach had a distinct odour of prussic acid, certified as such by all the medical men present. Having heard all the circumstances under which death took place ... I have no doubt that the deceased died from effects of an overdose of prussic acid. Prussic acid, in convention with potassium, may be procured in the form of cyanide of potassium, which is crystalised, and might be carried about for a short time without becoming liquid. If taken in sufficient quantity it would produce the same effects as prussic acid, in fact prussic acid would have been tolerated in the stomach by the action of the acids of the stomach in the fodasime salts. The effects would not be so immediate, as the salts would have first to be dissolved."

If she had taken a fatal dose of something, then surely the container would have to be apparent. Those at the scene of her death made the same assumption, and several people had looked for evidence of the means by which she might have taken her own life. The housekeeper said:

"I was very much surprised to find her in the state she was on the couch. I have not seen any bottles of hers in the house."

The doctors who arrived also checked for poison. Dr Rowlands was sent to Mr Bell's house a little before midnight. He had asked Mr Bell what he believed were the circumstances of the death, and Bell replied heart disease.

Dr Rowlands made a search of the room but found nothing that could account for the death. He smelt the glasses on the table, one of which had brandy and the other whiskey. He searched the adjoining sitting-room but found no bottle or glass.

Dr Price arrived a little later. He too examined the place for small bottles and found nothing except two scent bottles, and two others containing cloves and a tincture of myrrh. He examined the fireplace in the bedroom and found nothing. There had been no fire in it.

The report of the inquest concludes by saying that the jury returned the following verdict:

"Died from the effects of swallowing a certain poisonous substance called prussic acid, but the jurors are unable to say what was the state of mind of the deceased at the time."

The paper's headline of "Supposed Suicide" says it all. The woman was not showing any outward signs of self-harm, and nor was there a discarded bottle of poison. Is it possible that there was foul play? She did fear there were people outside the house. Could either of the people in the house have had a motive to kill her?

She had a curiously familiar relationship with Mr Bell, having stayed for six weeks. When originally asked by Dr Rowlands, Mr Bell suggested her death was of heart failure. But when poison was established as the means of death, Mr Bell then outlined a woman on the edge of despair and hinting at her own suicide.

The housekeeper on the other hand said she was in high
spirits. Mrs Charnley had been for a nice walk and eaten dinner before supposedly deciding to kill herself. She allegedly swigged a fatal dose of cyanide and, despite
expecting the end at any moment, asked her housekeeper
to put a hot water bottle in her bed for later. She then collapsed and died in the presence of the only witness to her final moments.

Another newspaper of the time thought there was little doubting the matter:

"Mrs Charnley, whose name was prominently introduced in a recent action against an officer for horse-whipping another, has committed suicide at Wigan by taking prussic acid."

Going back a month, the Lloyd's Weekly London Newspaper gives prominent coverage to what had been called an "Extraordinary Military Scandal."

At the Liverpool Assizes in November 1878, Captain Gildea of the North Lancashire militia brought Captain White of the Dragoon guards before the courts to answer charges of slander. The case itself simply concerned who was telling the correct version of a fight which took place. Captain White said he horse-whipped Captain Gildea, who failed to defend himself.

As a result of this, the recipient of the thrashing, Captain Gildea, had been questioned by his superiors who expected him to resign because of the disgrace. In the desperate hope of saving his career, Gildea was forced to bring a lame court-case against White in an attempt to come out looking less of a coward. His goal was simply to assert that he had not been whipped, and that he had defended himself. But in his attempt to retain his commission, the reasons behind the fight were brought to light, and they were potentially far more damaging than the altercation itself.

Captain Gildea reveals in his opening statement that it all began over a year ago, when he met a woman at Euston Station who was on her way to see the defendant Captain White and his wife.

The woman in question was Mrs Charnley, and at the time she was in the midst of divorce proceedings against her husband - the town clerk of Blackpool. At the station, Captain Gildea had apparently shown good intentions in pleading with her not to sleep under the same roof as Captain White. Gildea claimed that White had "evil designs" on her and that White had bragged that he once partially undressed in her bedroom without her being remotely alarmed. It seemed that Gildea was trying to alarm Mrs Charnley about how White perceived their relationship.

Captain Gildea also thought it unwise for her to go and see him because, he said;

"She had told me that there were spies watching her movements."

Did Mrs Charnley have good reasons to suspect this? Divorce cases can be ruthless. But her husband was also very powerful, and her assertion that he was a drunk could be damaging. The night she died she thought she had seen someone in the dark outside the house. Was this the paranoia of a woman struggling with stress or depression? Or was there a threat to her safety given the enemies she had made both in her divorce and the military scandal?

Captain Gildea explains that this conversation at Euston Station ultimately provided the reasons which provoked Captain White to come looking for him:

"On the 7th May I saw a cab drive up to the door, and two gentleman had been shown into the dining room on the ground floor, and I went downstairs to see them, Captain White had his nephew with him, a young man named Harrison. Captain White told his nephew to read a document that he had in his hand. The effect of it was what I had warned the lady about. Captain White asked me did I admit or deny the statement. I said I admitted it. He then said, "You are a liar and a scoundrel, and I shall horsewhip you." And at the same time he opened his waistcoat and produced a whip, with which he attempted to strike me. I immediately rushed at him and caught him by the throat, and I struck him with my right hand in the face several times. No blow of his whip fell upon me. Two ladies came into the room and called out not to punish him any more. The ladies told them to leave the house."

Captain Gildea had then been told by his superiors to take a leave of absence to clear the whole matter up or resign his commission, at which point court proceedings were begun.

Under cross-examination, the truth of Captain Gildea's relationship with Mrs Charnley began to emerge. He had been close friends with the lady and her late-husband and stayed at their home from Christmas eve 1876 to February 1877. A month later, Mrs Charnley left her husband, allegedly because of his drunken habits. Gildea's warning to Mrs Charnley at the railway station had not been because Captain White had "evil designs" on the woman, but was born purely out of jealousy.

Captain Gildea was asked about Mrs Charnley's disappearance to Reading:

"I did not hear from her at Reading, and did not write to her there."

At which point the defence council dropped a bombshell:

"Have you not heard that on the 19th February in the present year, having left her husband in March of the previous year, she was delivered of a child in Reading?"

Captain Gildea said that he had no idea and claimed that he had been warned to stay away from her, so he had done so.

Captain Gildea was presented with a number of highly affectionate
letters he had written to Mrs Charnley, and he found it increasingly hard to maintain the story that
they were just friends. As his terms of endearment were read out, they drew laughter from the courtroom. He was repeatedly asked if he had confessed his love for her, or given her reason to think they would be married. Ultimately he went so far as to say that he had perhaps given her hope that they might be together, but only to encourage her though the divorce which she was reluctant to complete. He claimed to have no knowledge of her being pregnant and he insisted his letters were misleading.

But Gildea also confessed to lying about Captain White's telling of the incident in the bedroom. In truth, White had entered her bedroom by accident and left the moment he realised his innocent mistake.

When Captain White had heard Gildea's inaccurate version of events given to Mrs Charnley, that was when he wrote down his grievances, located a horse-whip and confronted Gildea at his house.

Captain White's version of events was somewhat different:

"I drew a whip from behind my coat, and I did horsewhip him. I struck him three or four blows over the shoulders with the whip. Captain Gildea endeavoured to strike me but was unable to do so from shortness of arm. Some ladies then appeared, who endeavoured to separate us. Captain Gildea got behind the ladies, and I saw him no more."

This last remark drew much laughter from the courtroom.

The judge then summed up this bizarre case and the jury delivered their verdict. They found in favour of Gildea.

Curiously though the judge didn't seem quite so inclined to favour Captain Gildea and refused to give a judgement for costs against the defendant.

Regardless of how the fight played out, the motives behind the incident were clear for all to see. Captain Gildea left the courtroom victorious, but it was his relationship with the married Mrs Charnley upon which the spotlight fell. The true father of her baby born in Reading was never discussed.

It was one month after this peculiar trial that she died in the home of another man.

Her death was ruled as poisoning, but the inquest never explicitly said that she killed herself. Only in the news was this assumption reached.

The mind of a depressive can be shrouded in mystery, but the events of the evening seem at odds with the suicide theory. No evidence was found of a container for poison. A suicide victim is unlikely to go to the efforts of concealing their methods - but a murderer would.

Had she seen someone outside the house moments before collapsing? Can we be sure it was she who opened the venetian blinds which Mr Bell heard? And with Mr Bell being the last person to speak to her, how much of her final moments can we be certain of?

But another fragment of information emerged at the inquest into her death. Her solicitor Mr Bell revealed that the legal matters might not be quite done with just yet, saying:

"I met her in Liverpool with a view to taking some proceedings against Mr. Gildea."

Rather than accepting humiliation and defeat, this suggested Mrs Charnley was continuing to fight on over the case. Is this the behaviour of a woman who had given up? Or is this someone prepared to battle for her reputation?

More court proceedings were certain to rile Captain Gildea. Mrs Charnley had been instrumental in the horse-whipping
incident, as she had signed the document which outlined Gildea's lies. Captain Gildea had barely managed to
salvage his career from the scandal of one court case, and yet here he might be presented with another which could again jeopardise his career.

Was it enough of a motive to murder?

We will never know the truth of how or why that poison was administered, but it was clear from the press coverage what the public thought of Mrs Charnley, which perhaps solves one small mystery at least - why this poor woman's name came to be mentioned in Farmer John's church sermon.

Here was a woman whose marriage had been destroyed by drink. She was enjoying the company of several other men, and she bore a child in secret who could not be her husband's. She had finally - supposedly - taken her own life because of it all, leaving her poor children orphaned.

In reality this was a woman struggling to break out of a loveless marriage, and she had simply met another man before the divorce was finalised. There is even doubt over how she died.

But on that freezing Sunday in December 1878, Mr Edwards would have preached that Mrs Charnley's demise was brought about through a multitude of sins, and all his congregation should be wary of alcohol and promiscuity, for fear of burning in hell.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

Half the joy of being a genealogist is poring over the census
records, deciphering ancient hand-writing, working out who the correct
parents should be, and trying to draw a diagram that represents a
family. But if you really want to play the sleuth, as we all love to do,
the other half of this great hobby is getting out there. Walk their
streets. Find their houses. Visit their churches.

This
is a story which is strange for me to tell because it contradicts my
normally rational and unflinchingly logical view of the world. This is a
tale of coincidence, sentimentality and bewilderment about how I chased
an unknown branch of my tree, and grew to love them. It's
a soulful and lonely adventure I'd like to share.

It
began with a visit to an old friend in Newcastle. A visit which went
badly wrong. Not because of anything I did, but because the
circumstances of her life contrived to destroy our plans on a Friday
night in such a way that it was impossible for me to stay the rest of
the weekend. I was far from home and without a place to stay.

But
what I did have was a plan forming quickly in my mind as I packed my bag
on Saturday morning. The line of my family which gives me my middle name
came from the area, and I happened to have grabbed a few notes from
home, with a half-hope of driving around Newcastle to see whether the
streets still existed. We had a little time to kill before I had to head
off, so my friend was kind enough to act as patient chauffeur and
pander to my genealogical whims, whilst her life gently imploded in the
background.

My trail began with this certificate:

My
deeply Scottish ancestor Charles Napier McCulloch had married a young
woman appropriately called Ann Isabella Scott. These were my great,
great grandparents. At the time of their marriage of 1877 they had been
living in Argyle Street. Ann Scott had been born in Newcastle, as
revealed by her birth certificate, a document which also gave the names
of her parents:

Ann's
father was William Scott and her mother was Margaret nee Hills. A few
years after Ann Scott's marriage, the 1881 census reveals her mother in
Tower Street, Newcastle. Ann's father had died by 1881 and her widowed
mother aged 58, was a boarding house keeper.

Tower Street, Newscastle

It
was with some excitement I walked up the old steps to Tower Street - a
narrow, student-occupied corner of the town centre.
The immortal Tyne was behind me and the tall, slender Victorian Weights
and Measures building stood guard over the entrance to a steep road.

Looming
above were magnificent 19th century buildings. One's
brickwork elaborately proclaimed itself to be Industrial Dwellings from
1879. These ominous, monolithic structures had sprung up in the years
when the widowed Margaret Scott (nee Hills) would be running her
boarding
house, probably in a building opposite, but now gone.

I
loved that I could see the buildings she saw, and the view of the river
that would have greeted her at the end of the alley. I felt very
comfortable there, standing on the very
stones that she and her family would have helped wear down,
a hundred and thirty years ago.

We went back to my
friend's flat, and we said our goodbyes. I'd been so pleased with seeing
Tower Street that the thought of making the five hour drive home never
even entered my head. I knew that an even older document gave me a
different possibility.

The marriage certificate of Ann
Scott's parents told me that the road to take was not south - it was
north, and further back in time.

In
1845, Ann's parents William Scott and Margaret Hills were married in
Spittal, in the Borough of Berwick upon Tweed. William's father had been
a baker (from Scotland) and Margaret's father had been a fisherman.

Berwick
was an hour and a half's drive further north, and it was starting to
rain. But I was excited. I was on the trail. So onwards I went, alone
and looking for my ancestors.

As I drove, the rain
cleared, but the ground became patchy with snow. Along the A1, a
picturesque winter scene gradually developed as the blanket of white
thickened the further I drove. The sun
began to drift down behind the fluffed-up clouds, and I couldn't help
but stop in the wilderness to photograph the beauty.

I pulled
into a side road and the car slushed awkwardly onto the snow-covered
soft verge. I gingerly stepped out and admired the cold landscape.

As
I took my photos, holding the camera high over a bush to get an
unobstructed photograph of the flat white field beyond, my clothing
snagged and I fell into the needle-like branches which tore open my
already chapped hand.

The shock of the pain on my icy-cold hand made me loose my footing and I splashed through a
foot-deep puddle of freezing water, soaking me thoroughly, and I fell into the snow.

I
pulled myself up and sat on the car seat, checking my hand. Having
decided I was likely to survive the wounds, I found a spare pair of
socks and put my shoes in the passenger footwell to dry under the car's
heater. I took another couple of photos of the desserted scene and
sheepishly got back into the car.

Starting the engine, I
attempted to pull forwards but the wheels spun in the slush. It's
surprising how quickly a feeling of isolation can strike you when you're
a long way from home and the elements are against you.

Drawing
a deep breath, I slowly raised the clutch again and gently, the car
eased forward. But the road was a narrow lane and I needed to turn
around. Cautiously, I swung the car around into a right-angle in the
road and inched towards the hedge. An alarming clunk hit the front of
the vehicle. It started to occur to me that without knowing the edge of
the road, it was possible I couldn't turn round.

Putting the car into reverse I rolled it
back, trying to guess where the edge of the road might turn into a
dangerous ditch beneath its cover of snow. I felt the back of the
vehicle start to dip down, and I quickly hit the brake. Turning the
wheel fully, I moved off again and there was just enough room for the
front of the vehicle to creep round and face the right way. I was able
to make the final turn and head back onto the main road towards Berwick,
and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Noting to myself
that I wouldn't be making any more desolate stops, I pondered the
significance of the route I was taking. I knew from the 1861 census that
I was reversing a journey my ancestors had made - and I knew roughly
when they had travelled.

William
and Margaret Scott's first children had been born in Spittal, like
them. But following the birth of George in 1851 they moved to Newcastle,
where my ancestor Ann Scott was born in 1854 (although she's recorded
as Isabella Ann in the census).

I knew therefore that the
family made the journey from Spittal down to Newcastle in 1852/3.
William Scott was a tailor, and perhaps a journeyman, and it seemed the
family might have moved in search of work.

Around the
time they moved I knew that both William and Margaret's parents remained
in Spittal and the surrounding areas, known as Tweedmouth and
Berwick-upon-Tweed. The 1851 census shows Margaret's parents and
extended family - and it reveals a sad clue as to what factors might
have driven Margaret and her husband to head south.

The 1851 census above shows Adam Hills (Margaret's father, and my
great-great-great-great-grandfather) was a Pauper, with his wishful
occupation of fisherman in brackets. Margaret's mother Jane was a
"Pauper's Wife." These were obviously hard times. Perhaps the growing
port city of Newcastle held promise for the next generations.

But
the census revealed another fact which would alter the course of my
journey. Adam Hills was not born in Spittal where he was living at the
time, but in a tiny village six miles away, called Ancroft. I had to
pass this place to get to Spittal, and so I took the turnoff in the
narrowing and twisting country lanes.

The
creamy orange and red sun streamed out from behind fluffed up cotton
clouds, and I knew my destination was beneath the burning sky.

The
tree-lined hill brow and
scattering of ancient cottages were settled into their powdered
landscape as I drove into this breath-taking, oil-painting image.

Arriving
at the start of what could barely be called a village, I parked the car
and crunched out into a dreamland. It was deserted. Deadly silent in
the fading light. The one-track lane which snaked away was glistening
with ice and patched with snow.

My feet left impressions in the land of my distant ancestors, and I
soaked up this red, orange and white vista which Adam Hills knew as a
boy. A string of old, low cottages hid behind some scrawny trees as I made my way further up the road.

At
last a figure appeared. He was a friendly man with a black dog. I wish
I'd asked his name. I explained I was looking for my ancestors. He asked
if I was going to the church, and he pointed me towards it.

The
reddened sky was silhouetting an ancient farm-house, and the little
stream which flowed beside the road was stopped still in time, its icy
surface catching the warm colours of the sky. I gazed, and took more
photos and then I walked carefully up the slippery path to the church

At the gate, I paused. The white pavement lead towards
an evergreen tree which obscured the building itself. The graveyard was
surprisingly big and less covered in snow than any of the fields
surrounding it. Large patches of green lay untouched and the leaning
gravestones were randomly and generously spaced.

I
pushed the metal gate and entered. Barely taking a moment to consider
which of the many directions to start, without thought or reason, I
stepped off the path, and walked to the left.

I had
only walked a few paces, passing and partly-ignoring the first few
head-stones before I stopped as a slightly more elaborate one caught my
eye.

I couldn't believe what I was looking at.

The hairs on the back of my neck had risen.

I was looking at the grave of a Margaret Hills.

My mind spun with the possibilities. Emotion and
confusion took hold of me. Yesterday had been upsetting and sad, but
today had been exhilarating, picturesque and full of promise. I'd felt
guided by the sunset and I'd been literally steered towards this church.
And now, within seconds of entering the hallowed ground I was standing
facing the name of my ancestor.

My tired and unreliable
brain required a moment to take hold of the facts. It could not be my
Margaret Hills - she married, and her surname changed to Scott before
ending up in Newcastle running that boarding house. Ancroft was her
father's village, not hers.

But this village was tiny. Virtually
one road with a few houses. Surnames matching in villages like this were
never a coincidence, I knew that from practical experience.

I walked around the grave. I touched it.

I
looked up, and the bright moon hung in a clear, dusky-blue sky, sitting
perfectly above the bizarre, square, nine-hudred-year-old church. The
scene was surreal. The moment was improbable.

I stumbled away from the grave, talking to myself, scanning more headstones.

No more Hills. Not a single one.

The only one in the whole graveyard was the one I had found instantly. The namesake of my great, great, great grandmother.

The evening light suddenly faded, and I found myself trying to use the screen of my phone to see the names on graves.
I refused to believe my find had been so easy and that there was nothing else of consequence here.

I hunted closer to the church, where the burials became older, and the inscriptions more faded.

I started to stumble clumsily across graves, and I was glancing only hastily, frustratedly.
The chill of the air was closing in, and the dusk was almost tangible in the air.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone darting along the path which encircled the church.

I looked up, alarmed, trying to see if, as I imagined, it was a
young person in white clothes.
The anxieties of the real world were suddenly upon me. This strange quest amongst the dead seemed dangerous and lonely. I'd
breezed through the day barely thinking and brought myself to a
desserted village in the dark. No-one knew where I was.

I
looked for the figure, to see if they were making their way out along
the path. But the grave yard was completely empty.
There was no figure at all.

The last feelings of excitment about my discoveries were drained from me.
The darkness was all around. The outlines of the graves stood like stone figures, guarding their home.

I felt unwelcome.
The rational part of my brain was gripped by the fear of being alone and
in unknown territory. The irrational part of me was scared that I might
not be alone.

I hurried back to the gate in the gloom, treading carefully on the
untrustworthy path. I glanced back over my shoulder to take a last look
at the church but it had sunk into the darkness.

I stopped at the gate. A black cat was sitting in the path, staring back at me.

Never had an animal looked so sinister.

Ususally I'm a cat-lover, but I hesitated before taking a step closer. It immediately darted, and melted into the blackness.

I quickly returned to the safety of my car, and I locked the doors.

The day had provided many emotions, and a few scars. The
sadness of leaving my friend, the thrill of adventure, the isolation,
the fear. But breaking through the randomness, I knew I'd walked where
my ancestors walked. I'd found my family's name - however tenuous the
connection.

In the days that followed, I continued to
follow the trail of the Scott and Hills families and found far more
signifncant things than the name on that grave, but nothing touched me
quite so much as meeting "Margaret Hills" on frozen ground beneath a moonlight sky.

Epilogue

So who was Margaret Hills? Once I got home I did the necessary research and I found she was an aunt by marriage, of my Margaret Hills.

My
Margaret's father, Adam Hills the pauper fisherman, had at least two
siblings. One was Elizabeth Hills, born 1786, and another was William
Hills, born in Cheswick in 1784.

William Hills, like my
ancestor Adam, was a fisherman. Some time around 1815 he married a young
woman called Margaret Black and they lived together in Ancroft. They
had three children, but their little boy Thomas died aged three in 1824.
The family lived in Ancroft until at some time after 1832 they moved
two miles closer to the sea, to William's original home of Cheswick.
That's where the family of four can be found in the 1851 census:

On
November 6th 1855 Margaret Hills (nee Black) died aged 73 and she was
buried in her home of Ancroft. The headstone I found some 154 years
later remembers her, her little son Thomas, and daughter Susannah Hills
who died a spinster aged 60.

When I looked again at the
dates, one final link became clear. William Hills had married Margaret
Black around 1815, and a few years later when William's brother Adam (my
ancestor) had a baby daughter, they named her Margaret.

Which meant that my ancestor had been named after her aunt - whose
grave I found quite by chance one day, far from home, amidst the sunset,
the snow and the spirits of the past.

Sunday, 13 November 2011

In the historic town of Coventry, England there is a particularly attractive road of timber-framed buildings - the type which are often (although not totally accurately) referred to as "Tudor".

Spon Street is an active, commercial area which lies within the city's ring road and appears to be an oasis of untouched architecture preserved amidst a plethora of concrete tower blocks and shopping centres. But despite its wonderfully authentic appearance, this olde-worlde place is something of a lie.

Coventry was a prime target for the German bombs during the Second World War but Spon Street fared surprisingly well. In the decades after the war, the area's historic buildings saw the emergence of a new enemy: the town planners.
Coventry went through a period of redevelopement which saw the tearing down of many ancient structures including those at the western end and in the middle of Spon Street. A new ring-road was in development which would completely bisect the street and result in further obliteration of the city's heritage.

By the mid-1960s, the destructive path of 'progress' was being met by growing concerns that the original heart of Coventry was being lost.
Particularly significant timber-framed houses and shops were threatened in a number of streets including Gosford Street, Far Gosford Street, Jordan Well, Much Park Street, Spon Street and Spon End. A plan of action was devised.

But rather than preserve the scattered ancient sites themselves, it was decided that the structures could be moved and collected together in one place. This proposal would allow construction schemes to continue around the city without the unadaptable old shops standing in the way of property developers.

Having been fortunate during the blitz, Spon Street's east end still retained a good concentration of old buildings, albeit in varying states of disrepair. It was decided that the best of the remaining shops and houses would be renovated in situ and suitable buildings from the other threatened streets could be relocated there.

Whilst this plan was somewhat questionable, it at least secured the preservation of buildings which were in danger. However, following further appraisal, a number of the structures were then deemed unsafe and were subsequently demolished. After an analysis of the logistics, it was decided that others couldn't be dismantled as proposed, and they too were bulldozed. Ultimately, the only properties relocated from outside Spon Street would be three from Much Park Street.

On the 8th August 1969 a conservation area was declared and the first work undertaken in the "Spon Street Town" scheme was the restoration of one of Coventry's oldest buildings, pictured right.

From the early style of its roof construction and the curved braces in the front wall, it can be dated back to the 1300s. The front block was originally two separate workshops, each with an open hall at the back. The street door opened into a through-passage and there was a ladder stair to the upper chamber.

With the aid of gifts of materials, the work was carried out betweet 1969 and 1970 by Coventry Corporation.

Over on the eastern side of the city centre, Much Park Street was an area which had been struck by both neglect and the German bombs. The photo below right shows the street as it is today, with a Coventry University building now standing on the corner, and the Herbert Art Gallery beyond. But at the end of the 1960s, there were still a number of old buildings lining the street, as can be seen on the left-hand image.

This view shows the north end of the street, where three timber-framed structures were earmarked for rescue - they are shaded in red on the black and white photograph above. The building on the left of the road was numbers 122 and 123, whilst the tall one in the distance constituted numbers 8, 9 and 10. Hidden from view behind this was number 7.

Below left is a photograph taken further up the street in which properties 8, 9 and 10 dominate the view. This was one of the very few surviving three-storey jettied buildings of Coventry and it dates from around 1500. The decision was made to save it, and so over a period of four years it was dismantled and restored in Spon Steet, with work completed in 1974.

As a medieval city centre building it is larger and richer than the indigenous buildings which now surround it in its new location. Internally, the building was more or less mirrored down the centre, with passages at either end and a room at the rear. Half was open through two storeys to the roof, and the other had an upper floor. The cellar on the old site, lost to redevelopment, was even earlier in date than the building, and from which a carved lintel was preserved and re-incorporated into the new incarnation of the façade.

The old photo above shows that half of the upper jetty was not present in the sixties, and the front of the left side of the upper floor is a modern construction. At the end of this short terrace, and all but hidden in the black and white photo is number 7 Much Park Street.

The image below left better shows number 7 it in its original location. The neighbouring three-storey building is already missing from the photo, indicating it had been dismantled first (despite records which state that number 7 was the first to be taken down). Reconstruction and restoration was completed in June 1972. In its new home in Spon Street, number 7 was positioned at the beginning of the row on the site of the Old Plough Inn. When its former neighbour arrived a couple of years later it was positioned on the opposite side of the road, further up.

Modern rendering had concealed most of the original timbers but once restored, the wooden beams provided a striking welcome for anyone entering Spon Street.

This building dates from the late 15th or early 16th century and the front half was a workshop sited over a stone vaulted cellar. Above it was a room known as a "solar". Contrary to common misconception, this word is unrelated to the sun, but refers to solitary activities such as reading, which could be enjoyed there by the head of the household, away from noise and smells on the ground floor.

After reconstruction of number 7 there were various modifications made, such as the window on the upper floor solar becoming one and the stairs being altered. The original spiral stair position is still evident inside from the trimmed joists.

A passage down the left of the building gave access to a hall at the back, and at one time lead to further buildings. The hearth at the rear is still in its original position, and one of the bays within the hall was open to the roof, where smoke marks can still be seen.

The third and final building to be relocated from Much Park Street was numbers 122-123. Formerly the Green Dragon Inn, it was dismantled in 1972 not long after the others. But unlike the others, it was not re-erected very quickly. It took until a decade later before relocation was completed.

The photograph above shows the original site on the left, and the new location in Spon Street is seen on the right. The colour photo was taken a few years ago when it had become a bar aptly-named "1420", although this is an optimistic estimate for its age since the rear is probably circa 1450 and the front likely to be 1550.

Extensive restoration work was carried out to return the building to something like its earliest appearance, with the removal of the brick-work and other later modifications. Projecting out from the top of the roof is the frame of its previously neighbouring building. This was an earlier and much grander three-storey structure destroyed on Much Park Street during the war.

Spon Street prior to the arrival of number 122-123 can be seen below left in which the white 16th century Old Windmill pub stood next to the brick-built Rotherham's Social Club.

After the Social Club was knocked down, the timber-framed building was reassembled in its place in the early 1980s. This comparison is a great illustration of the strange backwards development of Spon Street, and perhaps it will confound architectural historians in a thousand years.

Although 122-123 was the final building to be imported from Much Park Street, it was not the last to appear in the new version of Spon Street.

Before the ring-road sliced through the street, it continued west and contained several other half-timbered houses. In order to allow redevelopment of the area, two more old properties were dismantled and shifted a quarter of a mile east to their present locations.

The building which had constituted numbers 142 and 143 Spon Street is relatively modern by the standards of the others, having been built around 1700. It was dismantled in 1971, and reconstruction was completed in 1974. In the above photo it can be seen with its present reddish-brown frontage and timber grid pattern. Its new site was next to an extant structure which was restored not long after.

Once the restoration had been completed, this impressive white building constructed between about 1450 and 1500 showed off twin gables as seen in the above photo.

It was virtually unrecognisable at the start of the 20th century as demonstrated by the black and white photo on the right. The shape and position of the gables are completely lost amidst the built-up Victorian frontage.

Thankfully this building was restored in 1977 and then again in 1985, resulting in the magnificent sight we have today - truly representative of its prime status amongst the original buildings of that street.

The most recent - and probably final - addition to the Spon Street project was made two decades ago. The central black and white photograph of the montage below shows the original location of a structure which had been numbers 54-57 at the western end of Spon Street.

That area now has been claimed by modern flats, and the present site is identifiable by the same tower block in the photo below left.

The older half of this set of buildings dates from the early-mid 15th century. The other half dates from about 1480. The entire structure was dismantled in 1973-74 and kept in storage for nearly two decades. Finally, in December 1988, work began on reconstruction, and the project was finished in January 1990.

The magnificent building now stands as numbers 1 and 2 on the corner of the street (pictured left), overlooked by the gigantic edifice of the Ikea store.

Over a period of four decades the current version of Spon Street has emerged from the once-neglected shops, as timbers were revealed and frontages were reconstructed. The commendable restoration work sits alongside the less desirable relocated projects, all of which come together to create what is today something of an enigma.

When admiring Spon Street, it is important to understand its evolution. It is not simply a preserved area, it is something that has been assembled, as if from a kit. It is a collection of real buildings positioned out of context - remodelled and reworked to fit a new vision.

Just a few days ago I sat in what had once been the Green Dragon Inn and gazed out from the ancient windows at the beautiful, jumbled dwellings. I would usually be in awe when sitting in a five-hundred-year-old building, looking at structures which were even older. But I knew that that particular view had not been created until after I was born. The building and its timbers were real, but the soul of the place was new. No ancient tales exist in which men and women walk down Spon Street and enter that pub, as I had done. Colour television has been around longer than the building and its street have been acquainted.

There is no doubting it is a beautiful place to walk, and each building is fascinating in its own right. It may not be a desirable way of preserving pieces of the past, but it is at least preferable to not having them at all.

I suspect that in a thousand years when Coventry is discussed by historians, Spon Street will be used to demonstrate the attitudes of the 20th century towards architecture and planning, rather than those of the 15th century to which many of the buildings once belonged.

Thursday, 10 November 2011

My great grandfather, Walter (known within
the family as 'Pop') was born in 1883. It was his younger brother Albert, my great uncle,
whose story really brought home to me the reality of the First
World War. It was a stark illustration of how it lured in such ordinary people, and sent an entire generation into oblivion.

For Remembrance Day, this is the short life and death of Albert.

Albert was born into late-Victorian Liverpool,
around October 1890. His father, Frederick was a joiner,
born in Banbury and his mother Elizabeth was the daughter
of a Policeman from Ripon.

Baby Albert had a sister, four years older than
him, and a brother Walter, seven years older. The family lived
at number 8 Rupert Grove, a newly-built, typical terraced
street off Heyworth Street about a mile away from the city
centre of Liverpool. Another brother, Arthur, was born three years later.

Living in the heart of a flourishing maritime city it is not
surprising that after leaving school, Albert found employment
with a shipping company, working as a stationer. Similarly, his younger brother Arthur
became a 'Shipping Clerk'. Older brother Walter became a joiner
like his father, both of whom worked for a building company.

At the start of the decade that would see the
world change forever, this ordinary Edwardian family was living
at 67 Stanfield Road in Liverpool.

Signing Up

Three years later, and a thousand miles away,
on 28th June 1914, a Bosnian-Serb student called Gavrilo Princip
fired two shots at Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Countess Sophie,
killing them both. Within days, all the powers of Europe had
declared war on each other, including Britain upon Germany.

Three months on, in the old watch factory at
Prescot, the 17th (Service) Battalion (1st City) was formed
by Lord Derby. The '17th Liverpools' has the distinction of
being the first of the 'pals' battalions. In
April of 1915 this 17th Battalion was attached to 89th Brigade,
30th Division.

At some point during 1915, Albert left his job as a stationer and signed up with
the 17th Liverpools. Not long after, and with no more military
background than I have, this young
man who'd just turned 25, boarded a ship destined for France. He landed at Boulogne on 7th November
1915.

What must have gone through his head as he marched
through France? Did it seem a great adventure away from home?
Was he thrilled to be doing his duty? Or was he frightened,
homesick and tired? Either way, it was only the beginning.

Into Battle

The Liverpool Pals' first battle came during
the infamous 'Big Push' on 1 July 1916 - The first day of the
Somme Offensive. The 89th Brigade, under the Earl of Derby's
brother Brigadier F.C. Stanley, comprised Albert's
17th Liverpool Battalion, plus the 19th, and 20th Pals.

In the opening phase of the Battle of the Somme,
the British and French fired 1.7 million shells during a 7-day
preparatory barrage at the Germans. But the shells were not
effective and the enemy waited it out.

The 'creeping barrages' were supposed to land
artillery fire between the advancing British troops and the
German troops, and then push the Germans back to their own
lines as the Allied troops attacked. However, faulty implementation
of this system resulted in the barrage starting on the German
lines and then lifting beyond, leaving the advancing British
troops to face unsuppressed defenders. XIII Corps which included
Albert's 30th Division abandoned the creeping barrage
altogether.

The southern flank of the British line was held
by XIII Corps whose objective was the village of Montauban.
The two assault divisions - the 18th (Eastern) and Albert in the 30th Division, seized all their objectives.
They were one of the few divisions during the offensive to
claim such success but it came at the cost of over 3,000 casualties
each.

On 29th July 1916, after four deafening, bloody
and horrifying weeks of fighting in the Somme, the fighting had abated. A photo was taken of the soldiers of the 17th Service
Battalion of the King's Liverpool Regiment praying during
a church parade before entering the trenches.

To me, soldiers are a particular
breed of men. Those who feel capable, ready, tough and adventurous.
I am not saying that Albert wasn't all of these things,
but the only thing I really know about him was that a few
years before this photo was taken, he was just a young man bearing my surname, with a desk job in an office in Merseyside - just like me. I find it hard
to reconcile that familiarity with this image. That young man is suddenly a soldier, kneeling with his comrades in
a field a very long way from home, praying they would
endure the next battle.

Having survived the Somme, Albert next fought
in the Battle of Le Transloy, including the capture of Eaucourt
l’Abbaye, Le Sars and the attacks on Butte de Warlencourt.

He fought at the First and Second Battles of
the Scarpe at Monchy le Preux and Guemappe in April of 1917.

He fought at the Battle of St. Quentin in March
of 1918, at the Somme corssing, and at the Battle of Rosieres.

Then, in April 1918, the Germans made their
'Spring Offensive' in an attempt to defeat the Allies before
the full resources of the United States joined the war. The
Germans' objective was to capture Ypres to force the Allies
back to the channel. Also known as the Third Battle of Flanders
or The Battle of the Lys, this was the war starting to reach
its conclusion.

A sequence of bloody battles were fought during
April which culminated, on the 29th April 1918, in the final
attack of the offensive. German forces were able to capture
the hill to the northwest of Mount Kemmel - the Scherpenberg.

It was on the 29th of April 1918, whilst defending
the Scherpenberg that Albert was killed, at the age of 27.

When Albert's letters stopped, my great-grandfather Walter wrote to Arthur to ask if there'd been any word from their brother.

They waited, but there were no more letters from Albert.

Shortly afterwards, French units re-enforced
the Allied position, and German attacks in front of Hazebrouck
were failing, which resulted in German High Command calling
off the offensive.

One month later, the 17th Battalion was reduced
to minimum strength and on 30th June 1918, the remaining men returned to England.

If Albert had survived two more months, he would have come home to Liverpool, and today he would have grandchildren and great-grandchildren of his own. But like so many young men, he had no future because of the Great War and instead it falls to his brother's descendent to remember him.

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

Whilst the subject of this article originates 406 years ago, the prospect of a British newspaper headline proclaiming "Parliament Building Saved from Terrorist Bombing" feels very close to home in 2011. But we won't be delving into the murky world of religious oppression or politics today, as there is a more passive player in the events of the Gunpowder Plot, and one which is always overlooked: The building that survived the events of November 5th 1605.

Bonfire Night is a prominent date in the British calendar and whilst it sadly doesn't warrant a day off work, it is at least a significant night for many families and communities who gather together and set fire to things. Yet despite the common knowledge we have about November 5th, it is surprising that the setting for those fateful events is almost entirely anonymous.

To unwitting eyes, the current Houses of Parliament look suitably ancient and an appropriate setting for a 17th century espionage drama. But despite its Gothic styling, the modern parliament building wasn't fully completed until just 140 years ago. The original Westminster was not one single palatial building as it stands today, but a mis-matched collection of structures from different centuries, repeatedly altered and re-purposed many times by different kings. Compared to what stands in its place today, the building which Guy Fawkes attempted to destroy was surprisingly small and unremarkable, and all traces of it are now lost. What do know about it, and what did it look like?

We begin our search behind the MI5 Security Service building in central London, where we find Thorney Street. This street name is the last clue surviving to the course of a waterway which joined the River Thames here. The River Tyburn entered the Thames via rivulets which formed a small island, and this patch of dry land was named Thorney Island.

Upon this empty island, some distance from the walled capital of England, it was perhaps as early as 1016 that a royal residence was first sited, possibly by Cnut the Great.

Around 1045 Edward the Confessor constructed a royal palace along with a magnificent Abbey. The location of his new Minster, situated west of the City of London soon resulted in Thorney Island and its buildings being dubbed the "West Minster" area.

The earliest depiction of Westminster Palace comes from the Bayeux Tapestry (of which a modern copy is shown above) and it was William the Conqueror's son William Rufus who began building a new Palace when he came to the throne in 1087. It was his hope that the new palace would match the splendour of the adjacent Abbey, but his dream was never fully realised. Remarkably it is from this phase of construction that the great hall dates which still stands today, known as Westminster Hall.

In the 12th century, a second hall was built to the south and during the reign of King Henry III in the 13th century, several new structures were built and modifications were made. One such change regarded a hall called the Queen's Chamber to the south.

This Queen's Chamber was a modest stone construction built up on the first floor, and aligned north-south. According to sources such as William Capon, the ground floor of this building was the site of Royal Kitchens built by Edward the Confessor.

This Braun map of London from 1572 (right) gives us a glimpse of the old Palace on the banks of the Thames and we can start to get a feel for the layout of this site. However, the accuracy of this map is less than perfect as there aren't enough buildings depicted for the number that would have been there.

Parliament (and its earlier incarnation) had been meeting in Westminster Hall since the 1200s, but after fire destroyed many buildings in 1512, the purpose of the Westminster complex shifted from being a royal residence to primarily being the home of parliament.

The House of Lords settled into the hall that had been called the Queen's Chamber, already four hundred years old at this point. Beneath this hall, the large space on the ground floor (formerly the royal kitchens) became privately owned. On the left is an engraving from 1799 by G Dale showing this room, said to be 77 feet long, 24 feet and 4 inches wide, and with a roof 10 feet high. Often said to be a basement or cellar it was termed an "undercroft" and not situated beneath ground, but was accessible directly from the street level.

Within the modest stone hall above, the King and nobles were scheduled to meet at the end of the year of 1605. The ramshackle arrangement of buildings at Westminster meant that merchants of all kinds lived and worked in the shops and taverns, and there was no restricted access to important nearby buildings. Thus, beneath the first floor of the House of Lords, the undercroft owned by John Whynniard was leased out to the gunpowder plotters.

John Rocque's map of 1746 (pictured right) provides a more accurate ground plan of the main buildings in question. Westminster Hall dominates the area to the north, and the House of Commons is labelled occupying St. Stephen's Chapel. The House of Lords to the south appears extremely small by comparison to everything around it.

This image on the left gives an accurate 3D sketch of the layout of the buildings. Our view is looking north, with the Thames to the east.

Not fully depicted are the lesser structures of what had become a heavily developed area. As well as the prestigious buildings of state, a warren of additional wooden houses and shops would have butted up against them and formed narrow streets around the place. On this illustration the small House of Lords is picked out in red, behind the Queen's Chapel. Westminster Abbey dominates the area just to the west.

Despite its significance, there is a distinct lack of imagery of the old Westminster and the artwork that does exist tends to be extremely limited in what is shows. One depiction comes from a Dutch map started by Wencesclas Hollar some time after 1688. The map itself is fairly useless for the study of the area, however it is adorned with illustrations, one of which is below.

The view depicted is facing west with our back to the River Thames. On the left of the frame and looking like a church is the north entrance to the great Westminster Hall.

Just peeking over the wall is the blue-grey roof of Westminster Abbey which runs at right-angles to the parliament buildings.

But once again our place of interest - Guy Fawkes' terrorism target - is not shown. Westminster Hall was impressive enough to warrant an illustration and yet the building with the greater political importance was tucked away around the back and not pictured.

Another piece of work by Wenceslaus Hollar is this engraving (left) which dates from 1647, but just like the other representations of the time, Westminster Hall is given centre stage, with the Abbey behind and St Stephen's Chapel on the left, home to the House of Commons.

With all near-contemporary illustrations of the area showing only the big, impressive buildings, what do we actually know of the hidden setting for the treasonous plot?

Could it be that the exterior was a actually a diminutive masterpiece...?

We finally arrive at what is probably our best, clear view of our terrorists' target building. Unfortunately it dates from two centuries too late, but this 1807 image reveals the (then former) House of Lords in its later life to be little more than a dishevelled old stone hall overlooking an untidy yard. It was hardly a venue befitting the seat of power for the entire country.

This beautiful drawing below by H J Brewer dates from 1884 and is a suggested reconstruction of the Old Palace at the time of Henry VIII. The main Westminster Hall is picked out in blue near the centre whilst The House of Lords is in red. Note the different number of windows and the longer structure compared to the 1807 interpretation - showing how little confirmed information there was about it.

This artwork gives a powerful indication of just how much collateral damage would have been caused to the surrounding site if the gunpowder had been ignited. The House of Lords was connected to buildings at both its north and south end, with the Painted Chamber and Court of Requests just a few yards away.

But, as history records, the plot was foiled. The king and the Parliament buildings were saved. For a while at least...

Given its ageing state and jumbled location, it is perhaps not surprising that this medieval House of Lords chamber was demolished about a century after the Gunpowder Plot. According to Thornbury the hall was destroyed "and some mean brick edifices were erected in their stead". Shortly after this, fire tragically broke out which destroyed most of the remaining ancient buildings on the site. This painting depicts the aftermath of the 1834 fire, with the ruined St Stephen's Chapel on the right, and the "brick edifices" on the left where once the old House of Lords had stood.

The disaster resulted in the rebuilding work which would see the creation of a brand new Palace of Westminster, and the foundation stone of the modern building was laid in 1840.

The image on the left shows an overlay of the 17th century ground plan in yellow on top of the modern site. The House of Lords is highlighted in red.

Westminster Hall and the adjoining courtyard were the only elements which were preserved after the fire, and remain relatively unchanged to this day. The east side of new Gothic palace extends further forwards to meet the bank of the river Thames on reclaimed land.

So, given the historic significance of the old palace buildings, why do we know so little of them, and why do they make so little impact on our telling of the Guy Fawkes story?

The "happy ending" of the Gunpowder story is the saving of lives and the preservation of our political system. The building which was also triumphantly saved in the process was later voluntarily destroyed, thus eliminating any thoughts about it being a victory for architectural preservation.

Images of the early Westminster complex are rare and not exceptionally inspiring. This Samuel Scott painting from 1746 (below) is typical of the view; dominated by the Abbey, and Westminster Hall (behind the trees). The ancient stone House of Lords is lost amongst the jumble of nondescript buildings and when singled out it is quite underwhelming. It was steeped in history, but its time had passed and its usefulness had come to an end.

The real tragedy about the old Palace was that fire destroyed the beautiful St Stephen's Chapel and other buildings surrounding it. If there is any architectural "happy ending" to be taken from this tale, it is that the amount of gunpowder the plotters used might have damaged the nearby Westminster Abbey and Westminster Hall. Stone and flaming debris would have been propelled in all directions at hundreds of miles per hour, along with a devastating shockwave which would have ripped through the narrow streets. Fires would have burned and many lives would have been lost, not just those in the Parliament.

If the Gunpowder Plot had succeeded we might have been deprived the full splendour today of two of our oldest and greatest buildings in London, as well as having the legacy of the devastating consequences of the assassinations and mass-murder.